


Dovahkiin's Break (Not really)

by LazarusLiszet



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Altmer Experimentation, Altmer Racism, Altmer/Nord - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Argonian/Altmer, Canon Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Cicero is a good friend, Dragons, Drama, Drama & Romance, Fantastic Racism, Human Experimentation, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lots of Angst, M/M, Milk Drinker Dragonborn, Misunderstandings, Poisoning, Possible Rating Change, Protective Cicero, Somtimes Cicero knows his shit, Thalmor, Unpleasant things are discussed, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 07:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14468094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazarusLiszet/pseuds/LazarusLiszet
Summary: The Dovahkiin has a lot going on, including being the champion of an insane daedric prince and speaking dragon, for instance. Wanting to get away from the stress of elder scroll searching, dragon killing, and being the archmage and listener, he takes a trip to Markarth.Where he immediately falls in love with his racist housecarl and gets involved in a corrupted holds government, among other things.Of course, he never gets a break. (At least he isn't hearing Cicero's mad rambling.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First Skyrim fic, be gentle please.

“Hail, summoner. Conjure me a warm bed, would you?” Orange-crimson eyes raise to meet that of the guard at the gate. He smiles slowly and bobs his head at the guard as he’s let in, ignoring the joke but accepting the offhand remark as praise. His boot heels click mutedly against the cobble path as he looks around the dwarven city of stone. Barely within the city walls Dawn can hear the roaring of the waterfall, and feel the humidity in the air clinging to his skin. He lets out a slow breath, smiling more broadly. A time away from the weight of the world looming constantly over his head is just what he needs. A reprieve from the brotherhood, the elder scroll, the dragons and the college is just what he needs. That damnable Cicero and his mad shrieking was starting to make his ears ring.    
  
The tell-tale  _ shink _ of a dagger being removed from a sheath catches his attention and draws him from his musings, the altmer turning his head sharply in the direction of the noise. A man in a wrinkled, grey white shirt is approaching a woman with a dagger in hand. A fierce, dangerous look is in his eyes. His feet are set into motion before he has time to think about it, and a simple chant causes a bound sword to materialize into his hand with a molten hiss. Stepping between the woman's back and the dagger and swinging the blade in a precise ark, Dawn aims for vitals. He can’t feel remorse in the face of a man who would murder a seemingly innocent young woman in a marketplace.   
  
The violet not-metal sinks into flesh with a vile squelch, and the man snarls at him, putrid breath wafting in his face. “I die for my people!” Dawn yanks his sword out of the man, who wheezes and stills. He looks to the would-be victim, eyes wide, breathing harsh from the adrenaline rush. So much for getting away from the world's problems!

 

“By the divines… Forsworn right here in the city!” Dawn frowns, having spotted a couple of rambling madmen in skull helms and stinking fur armor shouting about slights and land stealing on the roads, proclaiming themselves the forsworn. The man lying dead looks nothing like them, but perhaps he wouldn’t have gotten past the walls at all if he did.

 

“By gods,” Her voice trembles as she stares at him, “He almost killed me! Thank you! You saved my life!”

 

“It was nothing.” Dawn runs a pale hand through his loosely tied black curls, thin lips twisted in a crooked smile. Her blue dress swishes in the slight draft, and he look over her ice-blue eyes and brown hair. Pretty, perhaps, but then he wasn’t exactly interested in the fair maidens of tamriel. 

 

“Here, take this as my thanks. I was planning on giving it to my sister in Cyrodiil, but I think you deserve it more.” She rambles about her sister, but does mention that her own name is Margaret, and he smiles at her as she hands him a glittering emerald necklace. It would be good for Lucia, at least. She loves shiny things. Well aware that the intricate swirling scar on his cheek was more sinister than beautiful, Dawn dips his head with an appreciative smile and thanks her.

 

“Do you know why he attacked you?” His gaze sharpens as he searches her face for any trace of dishonesty. As she tells him about not knowing anything, and simply visiting from the empire and so on, he notices her toying with her hair at certain intervals, and stumbling on her words at those same times. A tell if he’s ever saw one. 

 

“Do you know anything about the forsworn?”

 

“Other than the rumors about them being culturally driven bandits? No, no. I’m afraid I don’t.” Dawn sighs, smiling ruefully. He turns his gaze to the crowd and tunes out the guards pompous assurances of taking care of everything. He spots a handsome, hugely muscled man with sandy blonde hair and a twisting crimson tattoo. His mouth goes dry, a light heat going to his cheeks, that is until he sees the look on the mans face. He’s staring at him in a mixture of begrudging respect and curiosity, along with something akin to wariness. He’s quite used to that sort of look, seeing as most nords take one look at the way he carries himself and think that he’s a snobbish lordling from summerset isles. It’s quite the opposite, seeing as he was raised in the cellar a couple of ambitious once-Thalmor determined to revive a long dead race. Impossible.

 

He swallows back bile as the memories come to the forefront of his mind and pushes them back stubbornly. His hands tremble, and he sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. There isn’t much more time to dwell on it as a man with tan skin and shaggy blond hair comes up to him, obviously trying to play-act the discreet bystander and failing miserably. He blathers for a moment about how absolutely  _ shocking  _ it is for forsworn to be in the city, and then, like a child playing at espionage, hands him a note with all the discretion of a three-legged skeever. The note is put into his hand with so much emphasis on the words  _ note  _ and  _ important  _ that Dawn struggles not to laugh, raising his brows at the man as he shuffles off into the crowd. The Dovahkiin doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, knowing that his life definitely will not be getting anymore peaceful or simple during his planned week of leave. He flicks the note open with a shake of his head, intricately done up black hair nearly falling loose. 

 

_ Meet me at the shrine of Talos _ . 

 

Sighing, Dawn strides off into the crowd, planning on meeting with the Jarl before doing any errands for the people. He finds himself spotting that man in the crowd, who is now watching him with an unreadable expression bordering on dislike. He frowns, marking the man as a possible threat. There are, after all, more people that want him dead than that want him alive. He wonders if the man had recognized him from a few jobs for the Family, a few months back. His bag rattles with his steps and he grimaces when he sees the steps towering in front of him. “Need some help?” Suddenly his pack, which probably weighs roughly more than he does, is lifted up so that it doesn’t feel like it’s breaking his shoulders. 

 

“Unbuckle these, Brother.” Rumbles the argonian, who smiles at him as he does so. “You are not built to carry such weight. I can hardly keep this up, and I am much stronger than you.” 

 

“Razeen?” He asks, blinking. He hadn’t seen the argonian in months. He was one of the newer members of the brotherhood, and had just up and disappeared. 

  
“Yes, listener. I will take this back to the inn for you?” 

 

“Er, yes, if you would. That is very kind.”

 

“Better to help you now than when you’ve broken your neck by falling down the stairs like a upturned turtle.” Dawn flushes, looking down at the argonian with a frown. 

  
“I am not  _ that  _ weak.”

 

“Not weak, simply built for different strengths.” The argonian is as puzzling as he always is, but then the man disappears, presumably to deposit the pack in the inn that Dawn had rented in advance. He hadn’t realized just how hard it was to breath with that awful thing on his shoulders and the supports digging into his ribs. Trudging up the stairs, Dawn readily expects to see a court wizard he can chat with while he waits for the Jarl, someone friendly who may be interested in hearing about the college, and perhaps donating some books. Instead he comes upon an assistant and an old, half-mad looking one. Both wear robes that remind him too much of the necromancers he’d been raised by, and he steers clear of the lab completely.

 

“My Jarl.” He greets, smiling. A spark of wariness lights in the mans eyes. Dawn understands his wariness. 

 

“Too young to be a traveller as wealthy as you seem, and wearing too many weapons to be a travelling nobleman. You’re a strange one. I assume you are requesting extended asylum in my hold?”

 

“Yes, my Jarl. A month, perhaps.” The jarls had gotten nervous what with the brotherhoods return, and it was now common courtesy to notify the Jarl of an extended stay, that way it was easier to identify bodies when they were found. Grim, but necessary to avoid unmarked graves being put everywhere. 

 

“Who are you, traveller?” asks a man he recognizes as possessing the new ledgers. He stands beside the Jarl. He approaches him with a smile and a friendly countenance.

 

“Dae’wenv Montier. Most call me Dawn.” He says as he is led to the side. 

 

“For your eyes, I suspect?” Dawn touches beneath his eye and looks away self consciously. The necromancers had succeeded in producing a physical likeness, if nothing else. 

 

“Yes.” He says, softly. Tolfdir had called him that when he had saved him from his parents, remarking that he had eyes like sunrises.

 

“The Jarl has been informed of your presence. Thank you for allowing us to keep a record.” He says, smiling again. Dawn smiled back hesitantly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn meets his housecarl, and promptly takes a nap. (Sort of).

It’s been a long two weeks. Dawn had slain bandits retrieved valuables, and shot down a dragon already. Really, he should build that house in Falkreath next time he wants time away. It would be more peaceful than any of the holds and their menagerie of petty problems. The man with note was mixed up in all of the forsworn nonsense, and he hadn’t yet gotten around to it. Razeen had been more than happy to help him once he’d fulfilled his contract, and they traveled together. Now he stood before the Jarl again, planning to ask if anything else is needed of him. “You have done a great deal here, Dragonborn. Should you wish it, I will make you thane. Of course, you would have to be well known by my people and own a property in my hold. I think it could hold… mutual benefits.” 

 

He’d certainly helped enough citizens to be well known, and tells the Jarl as much. The man simply chuckles and gestures to his steward, who is more than happy to relieve Dawn of much of his gold for an over expensive re-decorating and furnishing of the house, Vlindrel Hall. 

 

It took him another two days to actually step inside his home, after Razeen suggested he help him take down a bandit leader in a nearby cave, another contract from Nazir. By the time he gets up the steps he knows, and can perfectly picture, Razeen is curled up in the inn with some pretty Nord. His breath comes in wheezes and he knows his ribs are probably bruised or broken, and a gash in his side is bleeding sluggishly, stubborn against his healing spells. Razeen had worried and fussed but he’d reassured him that it was nothing more than a magicka resistance poison, nullifying potions and spells. He would be fine by morning - and he’d survived much worse than this. By now he’s forgotten all about the Thane promising to send his newly assigned housecarl to the hall, and when he staggers in on harsh, unsteady, and silent steps, well, he doesn’t react the best. 

 

At least the man doesn’t think him a milk drinker now. 

 

Dawn breathes heavily, a dagger pressed from the sheath at his wrist pushed forth and grazing the large, blond mans cheek before either have a chance to react more properly. The mans mismatched eyes meet fire.

 

“And you are?” Dawn rasps, feeling blood trickle down the side of his mouth. Perhaps he needed the medical attention after all.

 

“My thane…. I am your new housecarl.” Argis stares wide eyed at the man he’d been assigned to, who sighs and flips the knife over, shoving it back into the sheath imbedded in his sleeve. He’d spotted the altmer in the market a few times. Dae’wenv Montier was tall and thin, but not nearly the height of most high elves. The same height as Argis, at most. Otherwise he looked nothing like the other altmer Argis had met, with blazing orange-red eyes and jet black, curling hair. His skin was paler than any nord Argis had ever met. They had met eyes twice, and once that fiery gaze had been startled, pupils dilated from adrenaline and cheeks splattered with the blood of a forsworn. The second had at first been a friendly accidentally held look which quickly turned into a mask of cold indifference. 

 

“My apologies…” he waits for Argis to give his name, and sighs when he doesn’t, still shocked by the dagger that had been in his face, probably. “You would be surprised at how many people have tried to kill me within these last few weeks.” He offers as explanation, a wry smile twisting his features into something pleasantly jaunty. 

 

“I am Argis.” The huge blond says, and Dawn’s eyes widen in recognition. 

 

“My, I doubt Rezeen will believe me when I tell him that!” Dawn chuckles. “Argis the Bulwark, guarding my sorry hide!” He laughs softly, ruggedly. 

 

“You know of me? How?”

 

“I have my ways. I… You wouldn’t happen to have any poison cures on you, by chance?” Dawn feels his head swim ominously, but he doubts Argis has any. He’s weathered out worse.

 

“No, I do not.” Argis sounds confused. 

 

“Then I will take to bed.” Dawn stumbles when he takes his first step, his foot hitting on the ridge in the wood around the tiles, and Argis catches him, holding him steady against his chest before he smashes his face into the stone tiles, only to feel the nauseating shifting of his thanes bones under his flesh, followed by a breathy groan. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn speaks with his housecarl, and things get heated. A chat with the friendly neighborhood argonian ensues.

Dawn was well within two days time, to the shock of his new housecarl. He shouldered his way out of his room, one hand shielding his eyes from light while the other held the wall. “You should be resting.” Argis rumbles, frowning. His Thane had not spoken much, but when he did speak it was with the cultured accentations of someone who knew too many languages for their own good, as most of the Thalmer he’d met did. He had no idea how to treat the man, knowing that he was an Altmer that looked like none he’d seen before, with the delicate body of a mage and the fighting style of someone much older than he was, if the talk of the town was to be trusted, anyhow He had a confusing, contradicting personality and never stated his views on anything political in his presence. Argis is uncomfortable to realize that he’d probably hate his Thane if Dawn looked like a true altmer. He frowns, and repeats his earlier sentiment. “You should rest, my Thane.”

 

“I am an adult, and you, my good sir, are not my mother.” Dawn points out as he sits heavily in one of the chairs facing away from the fire, and towards Argis. He had come to enjoy his housecarls company, despite the fact that sometimes he would seem hesitant or unsure when Dawn’s race came up. An innocent comment, like Argis never having seen an Altmer so pale, can send Dawn’s blood running cold from fear and past hurts, but his reaction would always make the housecarl distant, as if he thought there was something dangerous or sinister behind the refusal to answer painful questions. It was obvious Argis was intrigued with his character, but it was also clear that he had been raised to hate and distrust elves. He’d been rather enamoured with the man’s quiet, stern personality. But his prejudice made his feelings for naught, whatever those even were.

 

He is snapped back to the present by another of those pesky, invasive questions. _ Speak of a daedra and he shalt appear _ .

“How old  _ are  _ you, my Thane? If I may ask.” He knows that housecarls are not supposed to ask undue questions to their thanes, but he can't help being curious about this anomaly of a man.

 

“Twenty…. Twenty  _ something _ . Perhaps six? I am not entirely sure.” Dawn tries not to think about how his parents had ‘celebrated’ his name days. Surely carving another tally mark into a child's wrist was as barbaric as he felt it was. He had scraped the flesh off with a scalpel when their backs were turned, and now he was not sure. Argis blinks, letting his jaw drop just a bit. Yes, he had expected that the man was young, but seeing as elves live for hundreds of years it is sometimes hard to tell. 

 

“You do not know your own age.” He’s quickly recovered from the shock of how very young his thane was, and instead focused on the bizarre way the question had been answered.  Argis was beginning to realize that everything his Thane has said could be a lie. Why else would he close off whenever Argis asked any questions regarding the man? Perhaps Dawn was a Thalmor after all? Something must have been wrong in his tone, because Dawn’s sleep muddled expression turns sharp and cold. 

 

“I do not.” His voice is cutting.

 

“Surely you jest? Unless there is a reason you are not telling me.” There it was. Doubt of his sincerity, where with another nord Argis would understand without qualms no matter how odd it was. The man wasn’t exactly prone to curiosity, after all. Stab now ask questions later, and all that idiocy.

 

“It is not something I wish to explain. Do as you see fit with your day, I will be out.” He says, his tone as harsh as it can be without shouting.

 

Dawn steps out of Vlindrel hall without his armor, hurriedly having tugged on his boots and slammed the door behind him. He hates this. Racism, when he hadn’t even been  _ raised  _ as an Altmer. He trudges to the tavern, fully intending to find Razeen and rant to him about all of it. When he arrives, he finds the Argonian sitting beside a pretty young man with brown hair, looking possibly to be a bosmer. When the lizards eyes spot him, with his black hair left down and disheveled, dark circles beneath his eyes and wearing no more than a soft, burgundy tunic and his equally soft black leather trousers, his boots improperly buckled… well, it is no wonder the scaled man almost knocks over his mead in getting to him. 

 

“Dawn?” The altmer breathes in sharply at being called by his name, seeing as it is the first time this brother has said it. 

 

“That bad?” His voice rasps, throat tightened by confusing emotions he refuses to address.

 

“You look like you got trampled.” He says, pulling his own cloak off and wrapping it around his superiors shoulders. The red hand print stands out starkly against the black velvet, and the blood red fur lining it is warm and soft. Dawn tugs it closer as he’s ushered into a seat, and watches blearily as the man Razeen had been talking to got up in a huff and stalked away. A warm, spiced cider is pressed into his hands, and he can’t help but smile at his friend. “Do you wish to speak?” Razeen asks as he sits down beside Dawn, so close their knees touch. 

 

The argonian has never seen his friend in such a state, with pale hands trembling and red eyes dull and far away. Not to mention the altmer was one of the most vain people Razeen had ever met, and showing up to a bar in nothing but a tunic, trousers, and boots was additional evidence that something was very wrong. “The man I live with is an idiot.” Dawn mutters, sipping his drink and sighing at the warmth it provides. 

 

“Ah, that handsome nord? I figured he was a racist swi--”

 

“He is!” He says, a bit louder than intended. He flushes, but no one seems to have noticed his exclamation..

 

“He continuously drives me closer to another… fit?”

 

“Attack, I believe the healers call them.” Razeen had witnessed the listener dissolve into a wheezing, sobbing mess within their own walls at the sanctuary, muttering about necromancers and his father. He’d never asked what happened, but Cicero had calmed him, apparently knowing  _ something _ . The jester could be surprisingly sane at times. 

 

“He asks all of these questions that have either no answer or none I would share with someone who hates me for my race.”

 

“Usually this does not get to you so.” Razeen sees the way he looks at the man, and knows Dawn’s type. Strong, broad, and quiet. Nazir had apparently had a fling with the man, though that is just brotherhood gossip. The nord fits all of his wants, and he knows the racism probably abrades his friend like sandpaper. 

 

“I  _ cannot _ .” He says, as Razeen obviously knows. “Divines, he is everything I do not need. His Divine is Talos, he hates elves, and he may be a stormcloak supporter, not to mention he would run screaming if he knew I was the listener.”

 

“You do not know that.” He murmurs. “Nords are idiots, but they usually have heart.” 

 

“Yes, and I drive a blade through someone’s heart on a regular basis.”

 

“What I meant is that he may understand your reasons.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn returns, and Argis and he have another row.

Argis was startled by his Thane’s abrupt departure, and had trouble keeping his mind off of the hurt expression on his Thane’s face, and the tone of voice he’d used to shout at him. He doesn’t know how to feel, and most of the time he finds himself thinking of what might make the man so strange. The obvious answer, that he was a Thalmor spy or something, wasn’t sitting right with him. Dawn was polite, and even sweet when presented with company or a quest. Argis had seen him teaching children harmless illusionary spells, projections of butterflies, and picking weeds from the garden of an elderly alchemist. Surely he couldn’t be so bad as his murky, hidden past entails? But then why is he so avoidant? Argis is almost sure by this point, what with the way that the young man scowls at Talos priests and avoids their shrines like a plague, that he at least sympathizes with the Thalmor.

 

When Dawn doesn’t return by nightfall it leads Argis to feel an abrupt guilt. He had chased his sworn Thane from his own house. Dawn doesn’t come back until the next morning, with his hair even more tousled, darker circles beneath his eyes, and wearing someone else's tunic. It’s a dark, forest green, and Argis can’t help but feel a spark of something he can’t place at seeing it. It’s quite obvious what happened to keep him out, and he has a small bruise on his neck to prove it. The sneak-thief sits down heavily across from Argis and snatches some of the sliced cheese from the other mans plate. Argis can’t complain, because this is food Dawn has purchased. 

 

“I am heading to Winterhold in a week.” Dawn says, unnerving fire red eyes meeting Argis’ brown and white. The altmer obviously has no intention of broaching the subject of the day before. He stands and clears his throat. “I’m going to change. If a blue lizard comes knocking let him in.” Argis raises his brows, having seen Dawn walking the town with a broad, shifty looking argonian. When Dawn returns in a black tunic and a pair of blood red velvet trousers, his cloak folded over his arm, Argis takes note of the symbol. The cloak is white and plush, made of red velvet and soft white fur lining. A family crest is pressed into the back, as white as the fur inside, portraying two curved swords and a shield displaying Jormungandr, a snake with its tail in its mouth. 

 

“Winterhold?” He says at the altmers statement, eyes leaving the intriguing cloak, watching the younger man smile wistfully. Red orange eyes sparkle, and Argis feels his throat tighten. 

 

“I am the Arch-Mage, after all. And I wish to greet the new additions. Urgar helps with the paperwork whenever he’s away, and Tolfdir oversees ceremonies. Everyone knows that he has things to attend to. “And then to Dawnstar.” He doesn’t include that he plans on finding a mad scholar in the frozen glaciers at the edge of the continent. 

 

“You are the Archmage?” Argis wants to laugh, wants to think it’s a joke, but his Thane simply looks away.

 

“I was a distant relative of one of the professors there, a twice removed nephew.” He clears his throat, not clarifying how that worked. It’s only a cover, and one he knows like the back of his hand. “Uncle Tolfdir took me in when my parents were killed by bandits. I was originally to be raised in the orphanage in Riften. I studied for some time, but had a natural affinity. When the college was attacked by the Thalmor I stopped it from being destroyed. The Archmage was killed, and I was appointed due to my part in the whole ordeal.”

 

“Oh.” Argis says, distant. So Dawn  _ fought _ the Thalmor?

 

“I’d hate for you to just sit here all day, so before I leave I’ll request you reassigned.” Dawn doesn’t want to, of course he doesn’t, but Argis obviously dislikes the thought of traipsing all the way to Winterhold. “What?” 

 

“I just… you fought against the Thalmor?” Argis’ voice and face tell of disbelief and wariness. 

 

“Is that why you despise me?” Dawn looks honestly curious, and more than a little pissed off. “Because I’m altmer do I  _ must  _ be a slimy Thalmor lackey?” Dawn sighs through his teeth, his face blotchy with anger. “I’ve never even  _ seen _ Cyrodiil you  _ colossal  _ dimwit! And I sit here every morn wondering whether you’ll be the next to wring my neck because of my birth, trying my damndest to play nice with someone who seems to utterly despise me, and you simply were-!” Dawn’s accent grows stronger as he speaks, sounding quite cultured, great emphasis on vowels and the first letters of words. He would think it endearing where he not currently frightened by this man, with his eyes on fire and the air thick with the scent of copper and wet wood, the smell of Dawn’s magic. 

 

“I do not despise you!” He interrupts, standing so that Dawn is not towering over him, despite the elf being slightly taller.

 

“Then why do you do this to me?!  _ Look at me _ , you numbskulled giant! I am the  _ last _ thing a Thalmor embassy would want! For oblivions  _ sake _ .”

 

“You cannot tell me you do not at least sympathize with them.” Argis is angry, his breathing harsh, and Dawn was the same a moment ago. Now, though, he simply… shuts down. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and screws his eyes shut. When he opens them they match his expression, a blank, emotionless slate. He doesn’t say a word as he deliberately steps around Argis, grabs his best shoulder bag, fit with coin and potions enough for a couple of days. And then he leaves He doesn’t slam the door, he takes his time pulling on his boots and buttoning them up, and then he just… goes. 

 

Argis stands there like a gaping fish for far longer than he realizes. 


End file.
